


In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.

by Chrysaora



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Deception, Dreams and Nightmares, Explicit Sexual Content, Incitement to Violence, M/M, Mind Manipulation, Psychological Grooming, Seduction to the Dark Side, Smut 4 Smut 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:27:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23068474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chrysaora/pseuds/Chrysaora
Summary: The laughter is gleeful and condescending. Cruel. It’s been there inside his head all his life. He can’t even remember the first time he heard it.
Relationships: Sheev Palpatine | Darth Sidious/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 6
Kudos: 12
Collections: Smut 4 Smut 2020





	In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.

The laughter is gleeful and condescending. Cruel. It’s been there inside his head all his life. He can’t even remember the first time he heard it.

At first, he thought it was a product of his own lack of confidence. His own nagging insecurities were fueling an overactive imagination which mocked him for his failures. Ben Solo heard the laughter whenever his dad told him he was too young to fly the Falcon. He heard it whenever his mom prioritized her position in the New Republic government over spending personal time with him. And he heard it whenever the man he’d once called “Uncle” and “Master” took on another new student.

One master, one apprentice. That was the way it was supposed to be. Those were the rules. But Luke didn’t believe in exclusivity. He believed that _his_ heart would be big enough to contain multitudes and took on many students at once…students who were self-evidently less deserving than the one he had known since infancy. His nephew, his own flesh and blood.

And so, Ben Solo looked elsewhere for someone else who would give him what he needed. Who would make him strong, give him the means to achieve victory, and silence the voices in his head. Someone who would make that awful laughter stop once and for all.

For a time, he thought that someone was Snoke. Snoke told him the stories that his family had tried to keep hidden from him, stories about the Sith Lord Darth Sidious, known to the galaxy at large as the Emperor Sheev Palpatine, and his loyal apprentice and right hand:

Darth Vader. His grandfather. Kylo Ren’s grandfather.

But Snoke was merely a puppet. A mouthpiece for he who yet lived. For _him_.

“He was Jedi like yourself,” Sidious tells Kylo in his strained, slow, sepulchral voice. “When the Jedi Order betrayed me, only he remained loyal. They sent Obi-Wan Kenobi forth to hunt him down and kill him. Kenobi nearly succeeded. Lord Vader survived only because _I_ willed it. I’d known him since he was a boy; I watched him grow into manhood. He was like a son to me. I loved him dearly.”

Kylo tries to imagine what it must have been like to be loved by the most powerful man in history. Although he has become Supreme Leader of the First Order, he does not feel particularly powerful. His position is precarious; rivals close in on all sides. He is not yet strong enough to singlehandedly bring peace and security to the galaxy. He tells himself that he needs Sidious.

“Prove yourself to me, young Solo,” Sidious says. “Prove to me that you are Lord Vader’s worthy heir—and when I have been fully restored to my throne, I will complete your training.”

He wants it. He’s decided. Kylo tells himself that, yes, he wants it more than anything. He tells himself the laughter will finally stop. Besides, does he really have a choice?

And it’s then that the dreams begin.

In his dream, he sees Sidious, not as he is now, that horrid half-life on Exegol, but rather as he _was_ , as his grandfather would have known him. As Palpatine. As Palpatine, he is middle-aged but vigorous, and his graying hair retains a hint of youthful ginger. His eyes are clear and blue, his thin lips a pale pink. Those lips curl upwards into a smile as those blue eyes with their laugh lines gleam with affection and undisguised pleasure at the erotic vision laid out before them.

Kylo is aroused and aching with heightened anticipation. This is it—finally, a chance to be loved. Passionately. _Exclusively_. Yes, at last! His hard cock jerks and leaks, smearing slick fluid on the bare flesh of his abdomen, and he opens his legs. He is naked, ready, offering.

When Palpatine pushes into him, with a single long, sudden, _masterful_ stroke, Kylo forgets for a moment to breathe. Aaahhh, he is so big, like Kylo’s spirit itself has been displaced to make space for the thick organ buried within him, and he stretches Kylo so beautifully, so completely. Kylo thinks he can feel every generous curve, every minute imperfection, every delicate squiggle of vein. He moans, helpless and hungry, tossing his head from side to side.

At first, he thinks it’s gorgeous. Each thrust is precise and perfectly placed to stimulate his prostate gland, and he lifts his hips in tandem to the rhythm which has been set. In and out, in and out, slaps of flesh coming together over and over, the musky scents of sex and male sweat filling Kylo’s nostrils. In and out, in and out, all-consuming pleasure threatening to choke him, building, peaking, demanding release. Kylo takes himself to hand, grip rough. Close now, so close—

“No, no, not yet,” Palpatine says and slaps Kylo’s hand away from his erection.

He tries to resist—his need to climax is too great—and realizes that he cannot resume stroking himself. His limbs are frozen, and he cannot move. He is pinned beneath Palpatine, and Palpatine has not stopped. In fact, he seems nowhere near done. His thrusts into Kylo accelerate, the power of the driving penetration increasing, and pleasure of the stretch and the friction starts changing,decaying into pain. In and out, in and out, catching on his rim, dry and scraping, so sore. The pleasure has fled, fled completely, but still it doesn’t stop. In and out, in and out, the penetration like a punch, no, a stab, no, a burn, like being run through by the piercing crimson light of a Sith’s lightsaber—

Kylo roars his refusal, but no sound comes out of his mouth. He’s paralyzed, _and_ he’s been silenced. Fury. He is furious. A raw, red haze of impotent rage rises up in him, through his stomach, his throat, the space behind his eyes— 

“Yes, young Solo, that’s right. Show me your anger, your hate! Hatred makes you strong,” Palpatine crows with laughter. It’s _the_ laughter; so it was him all along! His clear blue eyes flash with feral, bloodshot gold, and then Kylo sees Sidious’ true face once more, the face of the monster, unnatural, impossible, the living nightmare on Exegol—! He lashes out, three decades of petty resentments and disappointments transformed into purest, darkest violence—

Palpatine is hurled across the room, a sickening crunch as bones break when he lands. Kylo Ren rises from the bed. He is cloaked in black, naked no longer. “I am yours,” he says, “but it will be on my terms.” Belatedly, he realizes from the artificially modulated sound of his own voice that he is wearing his old mask.

The one he destroyed in a repulsorlift on the _Supremacy_.

And then Kylo awakens, tangled in bedsheets soaked with cold sweat and semen. As he contemplates the possibility of having his Knight of Ren mask repaired, he pretends he can’t hear the mocking cackles of Sidious’ laughter.

END

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for [frozensea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/frozensea) and posted to the exchange on March 9, 2020. Refused on May 28, 2020.


End file.
